


i don't want to run, just overwhelm me

by goldenwonder



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: "ill be there for youuu", Character Development, F/M, Gen, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Jumping through timelines, Laundry, Loneliness, Morning After (not really), Mugging, Pre-Relationship, age of ultron events make an appearance, and more - Freeform, art imitates life (for me yikes), bucky has a tender head, bucky tries to be a good guy, but also not really, cuteness, developing feelings, downtime in wakanda, during-relationship activities??, everyone needs a hug but especially Bucky Barnes, fight the system bucky, for continuity's sake, goodbyes are not forever, google is your best friend, grumpy irish men who pick fights, grumpy neighbors, im just adding as I go along, integration of movies to fics, medical assistance required, more medical assistance required, pepper spray to the rescue!, post WS through post CW, slight AU, slight stalking situations, sorry for confusion, t'challa makes another appearance yay!!, the in betweens basically, this is gonna hurt, yay for modern day references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2018-12-24 16:20:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12016491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenwonder/pseuds/goldenwonder
Summary: “What kind of a name is that?” he hears a voice question. He shifts his head, looking up at the figure above him. The dim, yellow light from the lamp on the table casts a glow over her head, almost angelic like the paintings he had seen in churches. He frowns,“What?”“Bucky. That’s a peculiar name.” she says. She shifts away from him, still on her knees. He doesn’t remember saying that, not that he was even sure that was his real name.“I typically do that to patients, take them off guard." she says, eyeing him. "The thoughts distract them, a little bit. From the pain.”He nods idly. The thoughts did more than distract him, that's for sure.





	1. The End is Only the Beginning

_ “Can't say I've ever been too fond of beginnings, myself. Messy little things. Give me a good ending anytime. You know where you are with an ending.” _

__ -Neil Gaimen _ _

 

  
  


"Are you sure?" Steve questions, his arms crossed as he turned away from the cryo chamber.    
"Of course I'm sure," she says from beside him. "I'll stay with him."    
Her voice is tight, and Steve knows that look she displays on her face: loyalty, devotion. He's sure the line has blurred from nurse, to friend, to... Now he didn't know. Though he didn't know her as well as Bucky did, she proved herself to be a worthy adversary in his latest mission against Tony. And, with Bucky telling Steve over, and over how much they could trust her, he knew someone needed to be here when he woke up.    
Steve glanced out the door, seeing the King of Wakanda waiting for him. He could see the helicopter waiting for him to board it outside, where T'Challa would see him off. He was so gracious as to let Bucky stay, to try to get better. Steve remembered his words, and how they rang true. He wasn't worried about anyone finding him anymore, not with this fortress of a place deep within the Wakandian jungle. He was just worried that Bucky wouldn't be in good shape when he wakes up again.    
"You should go. They're waiting for you." She said, looking to him. Her arms finally dropped from their crossed position and she walks to the panels displaying Bucky's vitals. He sees her scroll through them, his eyes set in a concerned disposition.   
"Hey, Sarah?" He questions, the name still sounding strange as it slips between his lips. He thinks for a moment that his mother would be proud of the woman that shares her name, find her admirable if not likeable. She turns her head slightly, her golden eyes still hesitant to meet his own. He sees pain beneath them, but also a sliver of hope. He wants to believe that it will be enough to bring Bucky back, to believe that she can come up with the miraculous solution to make Bucky whole again. 

However, where she has hope, he has doubt.

He doesn't tell her this.

"Thank you." He says quietly. Just the slightest of a smile upturns the corners of her lips, and she meets his eyes for a fleeting moment. Giving just a slight nod, she turns back to the panels. He doesn't dwell on the fact how her shoulders are taut with tension as he turns away, the door hissed closed behind him.    
The walk with T'Challa is an amiable one, past grievances put aside. As Steve begins to thank him for the upteenth time, the King of Wakanda steers it in a different direction.   
"Sergeant Barnes and Ms. Stewart will be in good hands. I trust you will rest easy, knowing we are doing all we can to help, Ms. Stewart included." T'Challa says, his hands clasped behind him as they walk.    
"I suppose she mentioned her medical background, then." Steve said, flashing back to the way her hands moved around Bucky's head after his fall into the river, the way she patched up Steve's face post-fight with Tony. Her hands were not quite a steady then, but for good reason.    
"I think she will find a place to be useful here." T'Challa said confidently as the doors slid open, the helicopter making the wind roar past Steve's ears.   
"Where will you go?" T'Challa calls over the sound. Steve looks back at him,   
"I have some friends in need. I'm starting there." He said. T'Challa nods in silent understanding, Steve hesitated, then extended his hand. T'Challa looks to it, then grips it firmly.   
"If you are ever in need, do not hesitate to contact." He said, and Steve grins lightly.   
"I'll be counting on it." He said, and let his hand drop, turning to the helicopter. T'Challa takes a step back, watching as the helicopter rose, then soared over the jungle to civilization. As the sound of the propellers died away and was replaced with the sound of the waterfall and lush sounds of nature, he basked in the crisp morning air.    
While it was short lived, the sound of the doors sliding open behind him. He opens his eyes, turning to meet an assistant that came to him.

Duty calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back at it again with the Bucky Barnes fic.
> 
> So, this is going to be a little side project of mine through school and work. Rewatched Winter Soldier the other day, and Civil War swiftly after got me thinking of what happened to him between the movies. So, here we are, with another character to tie it in.
> 
> This will not be a linear fic. It's gonna jump around like mad, and I'm just writing as I go along. There will be instances of Civil War within in (obviously), and perhaps a little hint at infinity war. But, for now, I'm just rolling with it!
> 
> (by the way I know this introduction is short, but I made it that way as a glimpse to see where they all end up. It'll make sense as I go along... hopefully!)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! <3


	2. Medical Assistance Required

_“With D.C. still reeling from the damages done today, officials have yet to comment how this disaster and breach of national security has happened today. We are anxiously awaiting a statement from the Mayor of D.C., as well as the president, who is said to have boarded Air Force One while the incident occurred…”_

Sarah walks out of the hospital locker area, pulling on her coat. Rubbing her eyes of the sleep that plagued her, she walks past the front desk. Waving goodbye to Muriel at reception, she made her way down the elevator and through the door to freedom.

It was in the early hours of the morning after a day (and long night) of consistent chaos tending to patients that came flooding in from the Triskelion disaster. As far as she knew, people were still being brought in from the “accident.” She spent a total of 16 hours under fluorescent lights, surrounded by the sounds of the wounded and the quick, choppy commands of her superiors. Once she stepped onto the sidewalk, she was actually relieved to smell the stuffy, garbage scent of the D.C. streets. At least it wasn’t the odor disinfectant or some sort of plastic-y substance that encapsulated the pristine medical utensils she had used.

The day was still young, too young for the sun to peak over the buildings. Rounding to her apartment, she was grateful to hold onto the rusty railing that lead her two stories up to where she called home.

She unclipped her nametag from her scrubs, sliding it into her pocket where her phone lay. Running her hand up her face, she pulls the hair-tie out, dark curls falling around her shoulders. Her scalp all but cooed in relief, and she massages it lightly, relieved of the weight of her hair. She slips her keys out of her bag, pleased to hear the familiar click of the lock undoing itself. She pushes the door open to her lowly apartment, flicking on the hallway light. Shrugging off her jacket and setting her bag on the small table by the door. She rubs her back, and scratches the top of her head before turning, walking to the kitchen. She barely steps in when,

“Don’t scream.” a quiet, but firm voice says.

Whatever shout or protest she was going to muster up dies in her throat as she registers the command. Whoever it is remains cloaked in darkness, and the light from the hallway barely reaches his feet. She sees the black, shiny tops of combat shoes. A silhouette watches her, and she feels her heart hammering in her chest, reaching her ears at a dull roar.

Her mind starts reeling with questions, with thoughts to call the police, someone, _anyone-_

But, of course, all of D.C.’s finest would still be on-site at the Triskelion. The only help she would get if she even called for assistance _might_ be the grumpy old Irish man that lived across from her. Somehow she didn’t think he would be much help.

“Can I… help you?” she questions,surprised but also disappointed in herself. It was annoyingly calm, and in fact, she sounded as though she was still on the clock at the hospital. Damn her social aptitude and its ability to get her into possibly more trouble.

“I need… medical assistance.” the voice says. Male, she docks in her mind. He sounds like he’s in pain, though trying not to show it. A very familiar tone of voice, from men coming in from construction sites with broken arms or sprained ankles. She never understood the fragile masculinity that kept them from expressing their pain.

“Okay,” she says, “You want me to take a look at you?”

She hears a shift, and sees the silhouette nod. She raises a hand to turn on the light,

“No. No lights.” he says.

“If I’m going to look at you properly, I need light.” she said calmly, her hand still hovering in the air.

“That lamp. In your office.” he says. She feels a prick of fear sting through her. He had gone through her house? She felt a massive invasion of privacy, and wondered if he thought to take anything.

“Okay. I’m going to get it, alright?” she questions. When he doesn’t say anything, she begins to turn, but he stops her.

“Your phone. Give it to me.” She glances down, reaching into her pocket to feel her phone vibrating. She didn’t even notice it, with the way her body was so high-strung with stress and pure fear. She pulls it out, turning.

“On the table.” he says. She quickly sets it face down, her hands moving up in defense as she takes a step back.

“Go.” he says.

She obeys.

Coming back, she plugs in the lamp on the kitchen table, and flicks it on. This is the first time she gets a real look at the intruder, though a curtain of long brown hair cloaks his profile from the side. She sees silver, a silver sleeve, with grooves and lines over it.

“Where does it hurt?” she questions, tearing her eyes away.

“My arm.” he says. She reaches up to touch his shoulder, her fingers barely brushing against the silver when he jerks back like she burned him.  
“Not that one.” he hisses. She recoiled her hand. His arm, it was cold. It was metal.

“Okay.” she whispers, angling the lamp to the other side of the table, where an arm clad in black curled against his chest. Moving to his other side, she looks to him with an uneasy expression.

“I need you to give me your hand, I need to see it.” she said, her heart hammering so loud in her chest she was sure he heard it. He then looked to her for the first time, though she didn’t dwell on eye contact for too long, for fear he might be able to stare inside her and amplify her heart rate.  

She sees his hand tense before he slowly lets his arm fall slack. His wince doesn’t go unnoticed, and she takes his hand.

“Tell me where it hurts.” she says. She runs her fingers over his tendons, around his wrist. It drew no response from him, so she moves up his arm. Pressing against different places, trying to find a pressure point, he sat stoically and she wasn’t sure if he had heard what she said before. She couldn’t feel much under his jacket, but as she went above his elbow, nearing his shoulder, he began to shift uncomfortably. When she arrives to his shoulder, she barely touches it before he jerks his arm back, and he grunts in pain. She hears the muttering of words, but they were too quick for her to catch. She raises her hand as if to stop him,

“Hey, easy, you’re not helping yourself.” she says, her eyebrows furrowing. She doesn’t want to go any further, since that is where the pain obviously lies, and it might be broken. She looks to him,

“Can you take off your jacket for me?” He looks to her incredulously at the fact, and she raises her eyebrows.

“You want my help, I need to see your shoulder.” she says tightly. He looks down, as if contemplating it, then moves his silver hand (though she still was not sure what _that_ was), and began undoing the buckles of his jacket slowly. Seeing him wince, she raises her hands to help but he shoots her a venomous look.

“I can do it.” he growls. Her hands instantly pull away, and she stands, taking a step away from him. She looks away at the sight of him struggling, but eventually he shrugs off the heavy black jacket. It falls with a thud to the side, and she pulls up a chair to his now-exposed arm.

She hears him muttering something, this time in some foreign language, and she glances at him uneasily before she adjusts the lamp again. She notes the way his shoulder dips, and knows this was _not_ going to be pretty.

“Your shoulder is dislocated. I need to set it, do you want me to do that?” she says, looking to him. His gaze is trained on the ground, but he nods. She scoots her chair out of the way.

“Okay, so I’m going to need you to lay on the ground. I’m going to find you something to bite down on-”  
“No. Do it now.” he says. Now it was her turn to look at him like he was insane,

“This is really going to hurt. I want you to be as comfortable as possible.” _Even if you did break into my house and are forcing me to take care of you. At least you don’t have a gun,_ she thought. Her care-based heart wouldn’t let her willingly let someone suffer in pain, no matter what they had done. She had helped revive drug users from overdoses, helped take bullets out of gang members. She had done it all, and this would be no different.

He remains silent for a moment, then stands. She takes a step back at the sheer prowess of him. He was at least a head taller than her, and incredibly fit to where she had no doubt that he didn’t need a gun when it comes to threats. With one move of his hand, he could crush her.

“Lay down here. I’m going to get some pillows-”  
“No.” he says. She huffs exasperatingly, but nods. She gestures for him to go down, and he slowly does. Laying on his back on the linoleum, she sees the way that silver sleeve melds into his own arm. Like metal and skin had been fused together like some kind of mechanical Frankenstein’s monster. She winces, feeling an uneasiness within her for, but quickly busies herself with finding dish rags and sinks to her knees beside him.

“What i’m going to do is extend your arm out, then I’m going to try and pull it out to try and set it back into the socket. It’s not going to feel good by any means, but it will fix your arm. Do you understand?” she says, looking to him. She reaches up, turning the lamp on the table to cast over them, and she pauses when she sees his eyes already bearing into hers.

His jaw clenches, but he nods, turning his head to face the ceiling. She looks away, lifting his head to put some dish towels under them to give him some cushion. She rolls one up, looking to him,  
“You’re gonna wanna bite down on this.” she said. He looks to it, then to her, and she _swore_ for one second she saw fear in _his_ eyes. He shakes his head minutely, and turns his gaze back. She sighs, and nods.

“Alright, then…” she says, kicking off her shoes and braced herself on the floor. She slowly moves his arm to a 90 degree angle. He winces, his teeth grinding together, and he shuts his eyes tight.

“You got a name?” she questions. He opens his eyes at that, and images flash before him.

_“I’m with you ‘til the end of the line, pal.”_

_“I had him on the ropes.”_

_“Bucky, come on, there are men laying down their lives-”_

_“Bucky?”_

_“Bucky, no!”_

He blinks, the images seeping away.  
“I-” but he doesn’t answer as she pulls on his arm, and he feels a searing pain go through him. He doesn’t scream, but his teeth feel as though they’re going to shatter with how hard he was clenching them. His eyes fly shut once more, squeezing them so hard he sees stars. And snow.

Lots of snow.

He lets his eyes slide open, slowly. The pain is gone for the most part, and the images that danced before him are gone. All he feels is the cold linoleum of a kitchen floor, and soft, warm hands against his arm.

“What kind of a name is that?” he hears a voice question. He shifts his head, looking up at the figure above him. The dim, yellow light from the lamp on the table casts a glow over her head, almost angelic like the paintings he had seen in churches. He frowns,  
“What?”

“Bucky. That’s a peculiar name.” she says, slowly moving his arm to lay straight at his side. He noticed the searing pain had dulled down to a throb, and feels a little wave of relief go through him.  She shifts away from him, still on her knees. He doesn’t remember saying that, not that he was even sure that was his real name.

“I typically do that to patients who are about to go through pain. You know, take them off guard. The thoughts distract them, a little bit.” she explains. He nods slightly, but doesn’t find himself correcting her with his name.

“You’re going to need ice, and rest. Do you want some painkillers? It’ll help with the inflammation, too.” He then notes how many times she asked him questions. Not about his health, not drilling him for information. She was asking what he _wanted._ It was a strange concept, one he was not familiar with. No one had ever really asked him what _he_ wanted. He was always too busy doing things other people wanted to stop to think about himself. That, and Hydra had made him compliant using… Other means. The thoughts leave a bad taste in his mouth like the plastic they used to make him bite down on. He swallows it and answers,

“Yes.” If she, a doctor, is offering it up, he must need it. She had not screamed when she saw him, she had obeyed every command he had given her. And she treated him with an exceeding amount of kindness and gentleness that he had never, _ever_ received.

Why?

“Do you want to sleep on the floor or somewhere comfortable?” She questions, sitting back on her haunches, hands in her lap. She was tired, and could do with some sleep herself. She found herself becoming less fearful of this intruder and moreso annoyed. She fixed him up, now what? She supposed she couldn't tell him to just _leave_ (something told her that wouldn't end well), but maybe she could give him enough medicine to knock him out for a few hours, enough time for her to call the police, or make an escape.

“You can have my bed-” she offers, knowing if she got him to her room and shut the door, she could get out through the fire escape. He sits up,

“No.” He says firmly, and her hopes are quickly dashed.

“In there.” He says, gesturing to the living room. She glanced over, the curtains drawn to conceal the light that was beginning to reveal a new day. He must have done it when he came in.

“Okay. Do you need me to help you?” She offers, but he stands on his own. She slowly rises to her feet, watching him lumber into the living room. She turns to her cabinets, opening them and finds the bottle of 800 milligram pills. Dumping some out into her hand, she does the calculations in her head. Three should do it, knock him out solid, if not bring him a little close to death. For breaking in and going through her things, she wouldn't mind.

Getting a glass of water, she walks to the living room with the items in hand, seeing him sink into the armchair by the couch. She holds out the glass, and it takes it. The metallic hand glimmers a bit in the light, and she looks away.

“Here.” She said, dropping the pills into his other hand. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't ask, and knocks them back dry. He sips the water like it's an afterthought, his bare chest rising and falling. She crosses her arms,

“Well, i'm going to bed…” she said, gesturing back, and his eyes cut through her like sharp, blue daggers.

“You sleep there.” He said, nodding to the couch. She glanced back at the ratty, sad excuse of a couch, and how uncomfortably close she would be to him. The proximity was enough to make her uneasy, but she resigns to it, knowing the medication would kick in soon. She might as well oblige him.

She sits on the edge of the couch, kicking off her shoes. She then realized that she hadn't even changed out of her scrubs, and weariness sets in. However, she does not move nor ask to change out of them. She would fix this, get out of this, and then she wouldn’t _have_ to ask.

Pulling one of the blankets over her, she tries to make herself comfortable on the squeaky couch. The man, Bucky, just stares. When she finally feels some semblance of comfort, she turns to him and folds her arms over the blanket. She meets his eyes, and stares right back. They have some sort of a staring contest, neither of them blinking or wavering. However, fatigue tugs at her eyes, and she narrows them before breaking away exasperatingly.

“Good _night._ ” She snaps, turning her head to face the black TV on the other side of the room and closes her eyes, willing herself to at least _look_ like she's asleep. She reckons he’ll be out between 30 minutes to an hour. She could last that long, or try.

Bucky looks away, shifting on the armchair and rests his hand on the arm of it. He wasn’t sure the last time anyone had told him that, even if it seemed like it was forced. He remembers hearing a small, blonde boy call it out to him in the night, pressed behind him on a mattress with a blanket to barely cover them both. He decides to try the phrase out, in his own voice. His lips form the phrase and it’s quiet, but it feels familiar. Like he said it once before, but can’t remember.

“Goodnight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A much longer, and more exciting chapter! I wanted to get this exposition out there as the foundation of this relationship. It's strange, it's peculiar, but it happened. More info is to come with following chapters.
> 
> Also, I am by no means a doctor, so I just googled what to do with a dislocated shoulder (which is what I sort of think happened to Bucky's arm at the end of WS that Steve does?? Still not 100% sure, but it'll do.)  
> I also sincerely hope she's relatable. I'm so tired of seeing the same female character matched up against Bucky, that I wanted someone new and hopefully refreshing. And believe me, there's no secret Hydra-agent, ex-assassin lurking underneath her. And I definitely don't expect her to be a Mary Sue either. Please voice your comments below!!
> 
> As always, hope you enjoyed it<3


	3. Fight and Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This follows along closely with Civil War. I just wanted to show how she fits in with all of this, plus I want to incorporate the movies into this.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

She sits down, wringing her hands in the small office area. Her hands were clammy with sweat, and she glances anxiously at the door. 

This was a horrible idea. She never should have left D.C., left her apartment. Even if Bucky did want her to come see him, she should have thought better of it and waited it out. Now, these whole string of events left her frightened in a foreign country, slightly bruised, and worried out of her mind. 

She stands up and begins pacing again. Her jacket was discarded on the chair opposite of the one she had sat in. She felt like she was going to wear a hole into the floor as she paced with urgent, heavy steps. She had tried to open the door, but whoever brought her in must have locked it on their way out. She was left powerless, and waiting.

Bucky’s face flashed before her recent memory; he looked horrified to see her on that freeway, his voice had trembled when he said her name. Not even Captain Rogers would do anything to stop the police (along with War Machine) from taking Bucky in, handling him like some sort of monster, putting him in a cage, a prison.

As if he needed yet  _ another.  _

She pauses beside the chair, resting her hands on the edge of it. No one had been in to question her yet, and this somewhat worried her. This could mean they had focused on Bucky, abandoning her to leave her in silence, wondering what they were doing with him. 

The thoughts of what they could be doing made her throat dry, and her hands shake just the slightest. They might not be HYDRA, but they were a fearful government looking for fingers to point, someone to take the blame.

She knew it wasn’t him. She  _ knew,  _ she felt it. There is no way he would willingly bomb anything of any sort. It wasn’t even in the Winter Soldier’s nature, before: he was a solitary assassin, taking small targets and making it quick and easy.

Plus, he would have never let himself get caught on camera.

She glances at the glass of water they left with her, her throat feeling parched. She began reaching for it when the door opened, and she immediately retracted her hand. She looks up, seeing a short, grey-looking man stepping inside. He had a pretentious air to him, the way he pursed his lips together and raised his chin as if it aided to his height (he stood a few inches shorter than her, and seemed to be acutely aware of this fact).

“Ms. Stewart,” he greets with a dry smile, “Come with us.” She remembered his name vaguely when she was brought in with Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson, something along the lines of Russell or Moss…

She follows him dutifully, clutching her jacket in her arms. They were flanked by two guards who walked a little too close for her liking. She looks to him,   
“Mr....”   
“Ross.” he says. 

“Ross, she echoes, “Where is James Barnes being held?” she questioned evenly. That garnered a snort from him,

“I do not believe it is out of your jurisdiction to know where he is.” he says matter-of-factly. She clenched her jaw, looking ahead.

“Is he at least alright? You’re keeping him in that…  _ thing?”  _ she says, a bite to her tone. They stop in front of a large glass conference area, and she recognizes Captain Rogers and Sam Wilson within it. Everett Ross sighs,

“It is for his protection, and  _ our  _ protection. You have nothing to worry about.” he says, giving her a pointed look. She keeps her gaze trained on the back of Steve’s head, eager to be out of Ross’ presence.

“What is your relationship with James Barnes?” he questions. Her eyes flicker down for a moment at that,

“We did an extensive background check on you, and you are a long way from home, aren’t you?” he questions. She looks to him, shifting her coat in her arms,

“I decided to try and take a vacation. Horrible timing, right?” Ross’s eyes flashed a bit of annoyance, and opens the door.

“We’ll be back to question you later. We have better things to worry about at the moment.” he says. Looking up, Steve had turned to them when the door opened to them. She steps inside, feeling the door shut a little too close behind her. She glanced back and saw Ross walk past the glass  office, to the control panel with dozens of other screens. She noticed Bucky on many of them, like security footage, and walked to Steve’s side.

“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Steve says, and she looks to him. He gives her the slightest of smiles, and she can’t help but return it.

“No, I don’t think so. I think we were interrupted before we could.” she says. He extends a hand,

“Steve.” he says. She laughs, taking his hand.

“Sarah. Sarah Stewart.” she says. She feels his hand go slack for a moment before he gave it a good shake. She smiles, and looks back to the screens when their hands feel. She held the jacket tight in her arms,

“What’s going on?” she breathes. She hears conversation behind her, seeing a tall blonde woman enter, speaking to Sam. She shares a look with the Captain and Sarah swiftly looks away, her eyes focusing back on the screen. A click is heard and an image pops up on their own TV, equipped with sound. She could hear a man introduce himself, beginning to ask Bucky questions. She felt uneasy, feeling like something was going to go wrong. She felt it in her bones.

Glancing at Steve, he sets down some photos as he begins to speak about them. She glances over at them, picking one up. 

“This is him? This is Bucky?” she questions, looking to Steve, then the blonde woman. She nods, and Sarah inspected it. Steve watched her as she looked it over, and felt his chest rise with a little bit of hope. Maybe she could see it like he did, see that it wasn’t  _ really  _ Bucky. A good lookalike, but not quite. He felt it, he just knew it.

He looks back at Sharon when she spoke, and Sarah could her their conversation, but tuned it out. As she looked at it more, and the other picture, she believed more and more that this was not Bucky. This wasn’t him, and she knew it.

“Well, we didn’t bomb the U.N.” She heard Steve say, and she sets the photos down. “That turns a lot of heads.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t guarantee that they’ll get him, it means that we do.” the blonde woman says, and the silence falling on the group has Sarah turning her head to the TV screen.

“Yeah.” Steve mutters, watching the screen as well. Sarah continued watching until the screens go dark, the lights turn out. Sarah’s eyes move up, then around. A misguided step has her hitting something hard, and she feels hands on her shoulders, moving her out of the way.

“Sorry.” she hears Steve murmur.

“Sub-level five, east wing.” the woman says, and Sarah turns to see both Sam and Steve hurry out the door. She moves to follow them, but the blonde woman stops her.

“Come with me. This way.” 

Happy to be out of the glass encasement, she follows the woman down the hall. She learns her name is Sharon, and she believes in them. Well, Captain Rogers, anyway. She’s here to help them escape.

Stopping before they left, Sharon quickly gathers two others. Sarah felt her heart skip at the sight of Black Widow and Iron Man,  _ in action.  _ They didn’t so much as give her a second glance before following Sharon down.

Stark departed from them, and Sarah could hear the sound of fist on fist not far. The Black Widow slips away, and Sharon looks to her,

“Stay here.” she says, and looks over her shoulder. Sarah sees Tony Stark go spiraling to the side, and Sharon jumps into action. Leaning into the wall she was behind, she watched as both Sharon and the Black Widow took on Bucky. She winced when Sharon was thrown into some tables, crushing them. Seeing the Black Widow try to apprehend him, she was slammed onto a table. Seeing his hand clasp around her throat, Sarah runs from her hidden position, barreling towards them. Grabbing his arm, 

“Bucky! Stop!” she cries, and he relents, stepping back. He looks to her, his face dark, emotionless. She had only seen him like this a few times before, but he always came out of it. He had to.

“Bucky, you have to stop. We have to get you out of here.” she says calmly. She still hears commotion all around her, but she takes a step towards him. His chest rises and falls heavily, his blue eyes devoid of their spark. She reaches out to him,   
“Come. Let’s go home.” she whispers. She notices the smallest tick in his shoulder, how it falls slack for a moment. He blinks, his eyebrows furrowing. She nods, but he immediately looked back to her, his face going dark again. She takes a step back before he met her in two strides, using one arm to send her skidding to the side, colliding into tables just as she hears a punch land. And then another, and then another. She slips onto her knees, holding onto the table for support. Her side was screaming in pain, and she tries pulling herself up onto her feet.

Looking back, she sees Bucky disappear around a corner, a man in a black shirt following him along closely. Her knees buckle and she falls onto the floor, in defeat.

She feels an arm on her, and she looks up to see Sam Wilson. 

“You okay?” he questions. She nods, still dazed, but slowly stands.

“If we’re gonna help Barnes, we need to go now.” he says. 

Ears ringing, side pulsing, she nods, and carries on.


	4. Domestic Activity

Bucky looks up, seeing Sarah emerge with a large basket leaning on her hip. She walks through the living room and into the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” he calls, closing the book and sitting up a little straighter. Sarah’s head emerges, her hair pulled up in a haphazard bun, springy strands of dark curls hanging in her face loosely.

“I’m going to do laundry.” she says, disappearing again. Bucky gets up at this,

“Going? Why?” He stands in the doorway, and she has a mound of clothes in the basket. She tosses in a book, and her phone.

“Downstairs, to the washroom. I haven’t done laundry in almost three weeks, and you and I need clothes to wear.” she explains, walking to the fridge and took out a can of soda. Setting it in the basket, she looks to him.

“Do you have to?” he questions. He felt strange about her leaving, still. He had relented over the two months he had spent here; she still came and went as she pleased. She went to work, came back, and was relatively on time and true to her word. His trust with her was steadily building, as his anxiety about seeing her walk out the door dwindled. She could take care of herself, he knew this.

But, he was starting to get used to her. A lot.

“Would you like to come with me?” she offers. He perks up at this, and she can tell. He was always eager to get out of the apartment, somewhere new. She waits as he grabs his own book and lifts the basket onto her hip, opening the door. He is close behind, and shuts the door quietly.

He never knew of the small room on the first floor, designated just for laundry. Sarah explains to him that this was included in the rent, but she was thankful to have a place to do her laundry in peace… Most of the time.

Four sets of washers and driers lined the wall. On the opposite sat three dilapidated chairs, a small box of toys in the corner. Judging by the colors and shapes, Bucky guessed it was for children. It tugged at his heart for some reason, and he sits down on the chair farthest from the machines.

One machine was already whirring, and Sarah shoves dark clothes in one washer, and her lights in another. Adding her own soap, she turns the dials and they begin to work. 

Bucky watches this with interest, having never really been one to do laundry. He never really had the opportunity to use a machine, as his mother would hand-wash clothes when he was younger and do it herself, and when he was in the army they did what they could to keep clean.

“Have you never used one before?” Sarah questions. His eyes snap up to her, and he sits up slightly now that her attention was to him. She always seemed to know what was on his mind, from the very start. He didn’t know if it was because his Winter Soldier facade was fading, or if he was truly that vulnerable around her.

“No,” he admits. She nods, picking up her book and sitting in the chair beside him. 

“It’s really easy,” she says, “All you do is separate lights from darks. Add soap, turn to “normal,” and the rest is history.”

(He notices she does not sit in the third seat, leaving space. Their proximity was now very close, and he was sure he wasn’t imagining feeling the heat radiating off her arm to his own.)

(However, he does not protest.)

“When I do another load, I’ll show you.” she said, looking down and cracked open her book. It was a memoir from some author that she had picked up the same time Bucky had bought his own. While his was the history of Rock ‘n Roll (a “new” genre to him that he enjoyed), he liked that they could sit in comfortable silence immersed in their books.

And that’s what they did for thirty minutes as the clothes cycled to their right. The only sound was the hum from the machines and the occasional page-turn. At one point, he hears Sarah sniff just the slightest. His head turns to find a tissue, but sees there is none. He turns to her to see that she was hastily wiping her face and nose. His heart immediately leaps in his chest, and his book nearly slips from his hands to the floor.

“Hey,” he says, his hand taking her arm lightly.

“What’s wrong?”

She laughs, and that makes him do a double take. She smiles through her tears, and his eyebrows furrow. 

“It’s… It’s the book.” she sniffs. She raises it for emphasis, and he looks to it, then to her. Concern and curiosity resounded in his eyes.

“Why are you crying because of the book?” he questions. She rolls her eyes, the last traces of tears drying on her cheeks.

“It’s just… emotional, I guess. It tugs on your heartstrings.” she says, closing it and set it on the chair beside her, sighing. She looked back to him to see him still watching her warily. She raised an eyebrow.

“Bucky.  _ I’m fine.”  _ she says. Bucky glances down, still seeing his hand clasped around her arm, and nods, letting it fall. A shrill beep makes him jump, and Sarah wipes her face a little more before standing. He watches her as she changes the clothes out. Her body language changes from jerky and stiff into the gentle fluidness that was normalcy. He couldn’t understand how a book could affect a person that much. 

And he also realized he had never seen her cry until this point. Not even when he had his outburst the night before, or when he had broken into her home, demanding her help. Not when he had basically kept her prisoner in her own home for a week. And yet, she cries over a book.

Glancing at the cover, he makes a mental note to read it after she is finished with it.

She presses the button for the dryer to begin working. She looks back at Bucky, and he sets his book on top of hers. 

“I was thinking we could go to the park tomorrow. I think both you and I could use some fresh air. And surely whoever is after you is long gone by now.” she says, shrugging and crossed her arms. Bucky was unsure, knowing HYDRA wasn’t one to let their prized asset just slip away like he did. He was sure they wouldn’t give up looking for him, but for now, he was sure they were regrouping and licking their wounds after the whole SHIELD fiasco. He wished, he  _ hoped,  _ that whatever was left of HYDRA had burned down with SHIELD’s downfall. While this was unlikely, he decided his threat level was at least a little bit low.

“I think that would be nice.” he says. 

He wishes he could tell her. He wants to tell her who he really was, the monster he is. Of his missions, the people he killed, how it was  _ he  _ who left Steve Rogers a broken, bloody mess on that beach that day. That he was the monster the government was looking for.

And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to. She was just beginning to really,  _ really  _ trust him (and he trusting her), and he liked her. She was nice enough to see past his whole demeanor and actually help him beyond what she did that night. She didn’t have to, she could have thrown him out and left him for dead. But she didn’t. And he didn’t want to betray that trust… He would just give it a little more time. Just a little.

“Great.” she says, and smiles. That stings, too. Her smile is so soft, and genuine. And yet, she doesn’t know, because he’s too damn selfish to tell her. 

She sits back down beside him, in that very same, close chair. 

“And maybe we could go to this farmer’s market. It’s outside, they sell a lot of organic stuff. I’m tired of spending 7 dollars for a bag of carrots, and I’m hoping I can score a better deal there.” she says. He nods along with it, the whole conversation sounding so… Domestic. Going out together, getting groceries together. It sounded so  _ normal,  _ and it was something that both frightened and comforted him. 

The door opens, and Bucky feels his nerves stand on edge as a man emerges. He’s older, a little stooped, carrying his own basket. He has a head of balding, red hair, and smells of cigars and mothballs. 

“Oi, Ms. Stewart, I got a bone to pick with ya.” he drawls, the Irish accent hard to miss. This must be Sarah’s notorious neighbor she had spoken of. She looks to him with mild disinterest, obviously not fazed by the threat. 

“And what grievance do you have today, Mr. Fitzgerald?” she questions, picking up hers and Bucky’s books just as Mr. Fitzgerald sets his basket on the chair.

“What were ye and yer mate thinking? Trying to get a good shag on at 11 at night?!” he cries, and that’s when Bucky stiffens. So, he must have heard the outburst last night. He supposed he was thankful that he didn’t call the cops on them…

“Woke me up from some bloody good sleep. Sounded like you were going to shake the bloody foundation.” Fitzgerald grumbles, opening up the dryer and taking his clothes, tossing them into his basket. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Fitzgerald. It won’t happen again.” she says sincerely. But her voice was tinged with embarrassment, and Bucky noticed a pink hue creeping on her olive-toned cheeks.

“Damn righ’ it won’t. I’ll be out’in you to the whole floor if ya do that again.” he warns, and Sarah grips the books tightly. Nodding furiously,

“Of course, Mr. Fitzgerald. I promise we will keep our… activities, in silence.” she says. Fitzgerald slams the dryer door, and looks to her with a pointed look.

“Good. Now, ya have a good day to ye.” he says, giving her a nod. Picking up his basket, he looks to Bucky like it was an afterthought, and gives him a half-nod as well before turning and trudging out. When he disappears, Sarah exhales sharply.

“He’s a handful.” Bucky remarks. Sarah stands up when one of the dryer cycles ended, taking out the lights and began folding them, her back to him.

“Yeah. I told you, didn’t I?” she says. He watches her, seeing the way her shoulders were tense, and arms moved in a rigid way.

“Why did you say that?” he questions, referring to the conversation as a whole. Sarah shrugs.

“Would you rather I say “oh, sorry, my ex-assassin roommate had a PTSD moment and tried maiming my armchair?” Somehow, I don’t think that will be convincing.” she says. Bucky nods, but then wonders why she got so flustered. Was it because he had alluded to them being… intimate with one another? Or was it because Fitzgerald had been disturbed enough to confront her about it? The latter he did not mind; if anyone thought he was experiencing  _ that  _ with Sarah, he would not protest. She was nice, and smart, and very, very pretty. Anyone thinking that she would belong with him was something of a compliment, even if she did deserve so much better. 

He stands up, walking to her side. He raises his hand, touching the middle of her back lightly. She looks up quickly at that, and she feels her heart hammer against her ribcage. 

“Here, let me help.” he says, taking some of the clothes from the stack and began folding. Sarah looks down, smiling lightly to herself. She feels the imprint of his hand fade away from her back and focuses on folding her scrub shirts to absolute perfection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whaat? Two updates in a day?! Well, I already had this one prepared, so I just decided to knock them both out. I actually really want this to be a fic focused solely on Bucky & Sarah, but we shall see. I like writing stuff out of order, so this may be the better option, but with some CW sprinkled in between. Let me know what you think in the comments? <3


	5. Goodbyes Are Only Temporary

Sarah turns over, feeling her lowerback ache with pain. She rubs her eyes of the sleep that coated them, and looks over to see the man from last night sitting in the chair, but asleep. She sighs softly in relief, standing up slowly. She casts her eyes around before remembering her phone was still in the kitchen. Seeing it on the table, she passes one last look to the man-  _ Bucky-  _ and stands up slowly, before creeping to the kitchen. Picking up the phone, she turns it over and sees several messages from friends and coworkers. Bypassing them, she slides the lock and goes to the dial section. She could get a hold of the police, get them to come grab whoever this guy was, and she could-

“What are you doing?”

Shouting a few explentives, she whirls around, gripping her phone. Pressing a button, it exits out the dial section. 

“Jesus, what the hell-” she hisses,

“Your phone. You-”   
“I’m gonna get a lot of curious phone calls from the hospital if you don’t let me call in.” she says, saying the first thing that came to mind. God, she  _ hated  _ lying, but it appeared she had no choice. 

Bucky, still shirtless from last night, and obviously restless, nods. He doesn’t move, and neither does she. Looks like a standoff, and she moves first. 

Still looking him in the eye, she calls up the hospital. Bucky was incredibly good at staring contests, she sees him blink only twice during her 5 minute conversation with the receptionist at the hospital. She was pissed that Sarah was leaving them out to dry the day after they got an influx of patients from the incident. She apologized, but an unvaccianted kid might have given her the flu, and she was running a high fever and puking. Bucky didn’t find the conversation amusing, and only settled when she hung up the phone.

“See? Now I’m free to be held captive in my own home.” she says begrudgingly. Bucky’s eyebrows furrow, feeling something like guilt creep within him.

“I didn’t-”   
“Can I at least have enough privacy to take a shower?” she questions, rubbing her face. She still felt gross and sweaty from yesterday, and still grumpy from not being able to change out of her scrubs. And if he kept standing this close to her, she was going to start throwing fists, disturbance or not.

But, he nods. He didn’t mean to capture her here, or keep her here. He needed her help, and now that was all said and done, he supposed he could leave right about now. 

“Great. Thanks.” she grumbles, turning and heading to the bathroom. He takes a few steps as to follow her, but pauses at the slam of the door. He looks back, and sees her phone sitting on the table.

He picks up his jacket, and it feels heavier in his hand than before. He thinks back to the Triskelion, of his fist pummeling the Captain over, and over, and  _ over. _   
_ “You’re!” _

_ “My!” _

_ “Mission!” _

He squeezes his eyes shut, dropping the jacket. A wave of nausea goes over him, and he grabs the back of the chair for support. He raises a hand, pressing it against his head. It was throbbing with pain, like he had been hit over the head with something hard. He stumbles over to the cabinet, throwing it open and trying to find those pills she had given him last night-

A knock at the door stops him. He looks over, and feels his body tense. He hears the light running of water from the bathroom, and then the door again. His metallic hand curls into a fist, and he slowly walks to the door. If it was HYDRA, they would have busted the door down by now. If it were the local law enforcement, they would have announced themselves. 

The door only got more urgent. Three steps, and he was at the door, throwing it open.

A shorter, older man looks up at him, a load of mail in his hands. 

“Oh, Jesus Christ, mate. Tell yer girlfriend I got her bloody mail again.” he said, obviously miffed about this whole mail fiasco. Bucky didn’t even think about his metal arm, but it was slightly hidden by the door. When he doesn’t move to take it, the man shoves the stacks of papers into Bucky’s chest. He grabs onto it before it could fall, and the man scoffs.

“And put on a bloody shirt.” he says, turning to his door across the hall. Bucky shut the door, glancing down at the stack of mail and walks through the apartment. He heard the water shut off, and knew she was probably out of the shower. He carries the stack of mail to the bathroom, and begins to push it open when it slams shut.

“Hey! Can’t I get a little privacy in here?!” she cries, her hand planted squarely on the door. Bucky looks at the door quizzically, and holds up the stack of mail, opening then closing his mouth. He just wanted to help.

“Sorry.” he says. He steps back against the wall, glancing down at the mail. It was envelopes addressed to one “Sarah Stewart.” Several of them were bills, junk mail, and a catalog on minimalist furniture. 

He looks up when the door opens, and Sarah’s eyes widen before she slams the door again.   
“Really?! What the hell?!” she cries, holding her towel closed against her chest. 

“I… I got your mail.” he says. Her eyebrows furrow, and she shakes her head. A few water droplets land on her skin. 

“What?” she asks incredulously. 

“Someone dropped off your mail.” he says. She opens the door just a little, glancing at him, then down at the stack of mail in his hands. He offers it to her, and she nods,

“Okay, well, um… Put it in the kitchen.” she said. He nods, and turns to walk. When he disappears from view, she tiptoes into her room and closes the door. She breathes softly, pulling up her hair and began to get dressed.

After Bucky lays the mail on the table, he picks up his jacket. He begins pulling it on, careful of his shoulder when she walks out. She stops, raising her eyebrows.

“What are you doing?”

“Leaving.” he says, doing up the buckles again. While this was music to her ears, she felt herself also needing to stop him.

“Thank you for your help, Sarah.” he says quietly. She nods slightly, 

“Where… where are you going to go?” she asks, feeling her hands begin to wringe. She quickly shoved them back down to her sides, and he shrugs.

“Anywhere.” he says, meeting her eyes. “Don’t worry about it.” 

She felt bad feeling relieved at that. She wouldn’t have to deal with his intimidating demeanor anymore, or worry about him bringing trouble. But, she felt that him leaving was taking a lot for him to do. Something in his eyes looked like he wanted to stay.

“Well, wherever you go, I hope you don’t mess up your arm again.” she says with a nod. He returned the nod, and walked to the fire escape. She hesitated, trying to offer the front door. But, he was already one leg out. She hurries to the window as he slipped out, bending down to the opening where he crouched.

“Hey, Bucky?”

Hearing it said outloud took him by surprise. He supposed he would have to start getting used to it. He met her eyes, and she bites her lip.

“Knock, next time.” she murmurs. She saw his face relax, and she inwardly kicked herself for inviting him back. God, she must be an idiot.

She looked between his bright blue eyes, and swore she saw some light behind them. With a miniscule nod, he disappears down the stairs.

She stands straight, sliding the window closed. She rubs the back of her neck, turning away from the window. It takes a lot to not look back, and she gives herself a forceful nod before walking to the kitchen to find some food. Hopefully by tomorrow this would have all been a bad dream, or a figment of her imagination. 

Right?


	6. How To Find

Bucky reclines on the couch, eyes trained on the TV as it droned on idly. But, his focus was angled to the kitchen, where he could hear Sarah making small noises as she attempted to find something to eat. 

This was one of the rare days they had together. Typically she works during the day and it seeps into the night. She comes home tired and he is waiting for her when she arrives, dilapidated from the day but always musters up a smile.

He is getting used to seeing her go. His heart never races anymore with the thought that she may never return, or she may go missing. She tells him when she’s late, and he waits. Patiently. 

This, of course, gives him time. Too much, sometimes. But, with his newfound discovery of Google, he does his own research on things he has missed over the years. Though he is no stranger to the technology of today, he is still amazed with the creation of the iPhone (something that you can call, text,  _ and  _ go on the internet with) and lamps that go on and off when you clap (he asked Sarah to order one, and she gave him  _ that  _ look and continues reading). 

He has a list of items he looks up, the idea of organizing his thoughts appeasing him. He has two notebooks now, filled with things he didn’t know before. (Like why bananas taste different now than they did before, or the creation of the Twin Towers. How exactly bluetooth works, and the usage of drones in the battlefield or for pleasure.)

(He also asked Sarah for one of those, too. 

“Maybe for Christmas.” she muses.)

But his favorite thing is books and movies. He had devoured all of Sarah’s books like wildfire, hungry for their stories and the significance of them. But, it wasn’t much and was happy when she offered up her library card. He had used the card countless times already, a stack of four books sitting in the bedroom right now. And as for movies, he had viewed nearly everything on her Amazon Prime account, and what was on her personal list (including the new  _ Star Trek  _ movies. Sarah always remarked on Kirk’s blue eyes.

“There’s no way those are even that blue. It has  _ got  _ to be movie magic or something.”

He remembers blue eyes. Though not quite as blue, but they were once eyes he could confide in. That he knew, that he trusted.

But, he just nods, and agrees.)

Flipping the channel to another news station, he sits up at the latest update on the situation in Sokovia.

_ “Volunteers and local law and medical enforcement are still actively searching and clearing up the rubble in Sokovia today. The body count is nearing 150, and is rising every day through relief efforts cleaning up. However, we can credit the  _ Avengers  _ for being there to save the day yet again, helping civilians get to safety as shown by these eye witness’ footage, as well as...”  _ The newscaster goes on as the videos show the ground rising into the air, but also of blurred pictures of the Avengers fighting Stark’s rogue robots. He sees pixelated visions of black, red, gold, and silver. He sits up slightly, and then he sees it.

The red, white, and blue shield soars across the screen, shredding a robot in two. The man follows after it swiftly, ducking away just in time from a blast. 

“Hey, did you eat the rest of my plums? I thought I just bought some the other day-” he hears Sarah say, but glances over when he hears her fall silent. She stands in the threshold between the kitchen and the living room, her own eyes glued to the TV. She slowly walks over, standing by the couch and crosses her arms. He looks back to the TV, the blonde newscaster back on, reciting the same facts they had heard the day before.

“What’s the death toll today?” Sarah questions, her teeth biting down on her thumbnail.

“150, and counting.” he mumbles. The room is filled with the newscaster’s somber voice, and he speaks,

“I think I want to see him.” he says. “I want to find him.” 

Sarah turns to him at this, and he can already tell he has her lips pursed, her eyebrows furrowed, creating  _ that  _ look. He feels the couch dip beside him, and he finally looks to her. His thoughts were exactly right, her eyes tinged with concern.

“Are you sure? You don’t think it’s, well…” she says, her lips parting hesitantly. “Too soon?” He looks back to the TV, and nods. Though he wasn’t completely sold on it himself, he knew he needed to begin taking steps to find Steve again. Maybe seeing him will bring back more pieces of his life, of memories of his past life. The one he was supposed to live, that he  _ did  _ live over 70 years ago.

“But I don’t know where to begin.” he sighs hopelessly, his head falling into his hands. Sarah raises her eyebrows, sighing.

“There’s always Google.” she offers. He lifts his head, his eyebrows instantly furrowing. 

“Everyone has to pay taxes. Has to have their name “in the system.”” Sarah explains, typing on the laptop in the kitchen. He hovers over her shoulder, watching the screen change with an intent expression. 

“You can track anyone down by their name, by the bills they pay, where they live.” she says, typing in “Steven Grant Rogers” into the search engine, and pressed enter. Bucky held his breath as it loaded, and sees several names pop up. Sarah leans forward, her eyes narrowing. Bucky looks from the screen to her,

“What? What is it?” he questions. 

“I think this is him.” she says, and clicks on the third name. It pops up with his name, date of birth, and address. As his eyes move across the address (still in D.C.) his heart falls when he sees “ **Former Residence** ” in red letters. 

His shoulders sag, and Sarah slowly turns to him.   
“Bucky, I’m so-”   
“It’s fine, Sarah.” he says, sitting down in the chair beside her. She looks to him, and puts her hand on his knee lightly.

“He’s probably just between houses right now. I’m sure-”   
“Yeah, because I shot up that place.” he says. He should have known Steve would figure it’s not safe. Not when he found him and Fury there that one night. Steve would have been smart, and moved as quickly as possible. 

Sarah gazes at him with a calmness that makes him slowly raise his eyes. She also struggled with coming to terms with his past, but she wasn’t afraid of him. She just hated to see him tear himself up over it all, when he had little to no control of what was happening. 

“I’ll keep an eye out, see if it changes. Okay?” she questions. She gives him a soft smile, and he feels his chest thaw from the iciness of disappointment. Reaching out, his fingers twist around a dark curl, still damp from her shower earlier.

“Okay.” She reaches over, closing the laptop and her face changes from serious to lighthearted. She leans in slightly, bracing her hand on his knee lightly. 

“Now, back to my original question… You ate my plums, didn’t you?” His lips curve into a real smile, and it makes her heart flutter. He curls his hand around the curve of her neck, leaning in close. 

“Yes.” he says shamelessly, and she rolls her eyes. She begins to swat his hand away, sitting up straight but he catches it within his own hand.

“I’m sorry, really. I’ll buy you more.” he says apologetically. She laughs,

“Right. With  _ my _  money. But it’s the thought that counts, right?” she muses, and he lifts her hand, pressing her knuckles against his lips.

“Of course.” Her hand slowly moves out of his own, resting against his cheek. 

“Hey, Sarah?” he questions quietly. She hums a response, her thumb brushing against his cheekbone. He feels his chest become weightless, his heart fluttering in his chest. 

“Thank you,” he says instead. “For everything.”

She smiles, but it’s a smile like she knows something he doesn’t. He thinks for a moment that his body language betrays him, but her hand does not waver from his cheek. It is warm and reassuring.

And it feels familiar, like home.


	7. Let It Be

She had to commend the people that furnished the Wakandian suites in the facility.

An outsider would have thought this vast loft was a luxurious apartment and worth possibly millions. With a distinct white and marble aesthetic in mind, minimalistic yet futuristic furniture, and a view of the jungle that was to die for. She could think of a few acquaintances back home who would fawn over it all, who would tell her how lucky she was to have the privilege of being guest to one of the richest countries in the world. 

But she, in all honesty, didn’t care.

Perhaps if she were here under better circumstances she could enjoy these luxuries. She could enjoy the lavish clothing she had to her disposal, the glorious view, the cafeteria that never seemed to have any off-putting food like at the hospital. She could have thought of it as a well-deserved vacation in a different time.

She never slept soundly. She would often toss and turn, and spend nights reading, contemplating, trying to attempt to plan a “next move.” But, there was no way she could do such a thing. Not when Bucky was asleep in cryo four stories down from her. Not when she was trapped here with no other place to go.

It seemed like a safe haven at first. With promises to help Bucky, to make him better. To protect them both from the government that they used to lie under. Now, as the months bled together, it felt like limbo, like the Twilight Zone. 

And these months without Bucky, her only friend, left her lonely. Of course, being a social creature, and often found herself eating lunch with some of the nurses and people of the facility. They were nice, and some of them funny, but they didn’t fall into the “friendship” category. 

So, she turned to books. Her craving of education grew in her loneliness, and she buried herself in books and knowledge. The facility had a decent library, and almost unlimited internet access. She would go from one topic to the next, spanning over many genres of education: history, science, mathematics (her least favorite), literature. 

 

(If she found something of interest, she would mark it down to show Bucky when he wakes up. As of now, she was three-fourths of the way through a simple spiral notebook. Her scrawling handwriting went across all the pages with notes and annotations for him to see when he awakens. While he may have stopped his research long ago, she wanted to keep it alive. And in doing so, it made her feel closer to him.)

 

She found a new motivation to delve into medicine again. She already her bachelor’s degree in nursing under her belt, and she wondered what it would take to get her a full doctor’s license. Turns out, it was a lot, and while Wakanda had a lot to offer, she couldn’t procure a Certified Medical License legally and in a school-environment. So, she began teaching herself. Memorizing symptoms and ways of treatment that could be on-hand. Recognizing illnesses and infections and ways to mend them. She may not have the title or the true experience, but she could try her best. Besides, if she could help even more people, it would be worth it. 

 

As of right now, she was sitting on one of the upper floors in a seating area, facing the view of the jungle below her. Her hair pulled back and out of her face, she highlighted a passage in the medical book she was reading on neurological disorders, and marked the page. 

Dressed in a simple shirt and sleep-pants, she seldom got any more fancy than that. She never really had a reason, or the motivation. Besides, with the amount of reading she had been doing, comfort was the key to concentration.

If she focused hard enough, she could think she was sitting on her couch back in D.C. curled up with a book. If she concentrated even more, she could think that Bucky was only in the next room, sound asleep. But, the mind is a cruel thing that adores trickery, and when she lifts her head at the sound of sliding doors, the vision and feeling is gone.

Her heart lifts at the sight of a man in a suit. While this does trigger some anxiety, she is thankful it’s not a white coat or a pair of scrubs. If it were one of them, then that could mean there was something wrong with Bucky. Men in suits were different, though. 

“Ms. Stewart?” he greets. She nods, closing the book and holding it apprehensively at her side. It stilled her shaking her hand, and she gripped it like it were a Bible giving her support and the courage to muster up a neutral expression.

“Yes. Is everything alright?” she questions. He nods,

“Yes. It’s only that His Royal Highness is here, and requests to speak with you.” he says. Her eyebrows furrow, but she quickly nods, setting her book to the side and hesitates.

“Should I change?” she questions, gesturing down to her attire. The man regards her with a swift glance of neutrality,

“He does not have much time. Come.” he says, and turns. She inwardly grimaces, and figures it was better than telling her she looked unkept. She follows the man wordlessly until they take the elevator to the engineering floor. Interest piques at her, and she glances at the man who leads her through to an office area. As the doors slide (she had yet to encounter a door that opened and shut like they did at home, all of them here were progressive and anti-door handle) she sees T’Challa’s figure, his back to her. He stands in front of a desk, looking down at a box covered by a sheet. He turns when he hears the doors, and gives her a light smile. As she enters and nears closer to him, she sees the tiredness in his eyes. She sees the bruise that is just beginning to heal, the scratches on his face.

“Your Highness.” she greets. Scoffing lightly, he shakes his head,

“You know you do not have to call me that.” he says. She shrugs,

“It’s only out of respect.” she says. Her eyes cast over his face once more, 

“Is everything okay?” she questions. “Out there, in the world?” 

He looks towards the wall a window could have been, and she sees the effect of past events weighing down on his shoulders. But, he quickly looks back to her,

“It will be. In time.” he says. Shifting to face her completely, his face softens.

“How are you? Here? I know it can be quite… Lonely.” he says. She feels her jaw tense, and glances at the door,

“Yeah. It is, sometimes.” she replies. He nods, glancing down,

“The doctors have given me updates on Sergeant Barnes. They are trying their very hardest to help alleviate his pain. But the mind, it is… Not so easy to fix as, say, a broken bone.” he explains. She thinks back to the passage of the book she had circled, knowing how difficult and precarious it was to try and fix something in the brain. Especially trauma, linked so closely to emotions and mentality. She knew since day one that Bucky may never really know true relief from all his pain, but could perhaps find ways to lessen it.

“I know,” she said, looking to him, “I visit him often. He seems to be fine. Armless, but fine.” she said, attempting something like a joke at the end. The lilt in her voice makes the end of T’Challa’s lips curl up, and he looks down.

“That is what I am here for, actually.” he says, and her eyebrows furrow. Placing his hand on the covered box, he looks to her,

“I have given my engineers the task of creating a new arm for him. Made out of titanium and steel, plated with Vibranium. Better and more functional than his… old one.” he says. Sarah feels anticipation rise in her chest, and looks down as he pulls the sheet away. Glass encases a shiny, silver arm. It looks similar to his old one, but different. It has a different air to it, it looks sleek and refreshing, and she feels like this one wasn’t made out of the malicious intent like the other one was. The other was a weapon from Hydra, the people that tortured and brainwashed him. This one was built for stability, for aid and protection. She smiles lightly, and presses her fingertips to the glass.

“It is… It’s beautiful.” she whispers, mesmerized. She lifts her eyes to T’Challa,

“He will love it. And greatly appreciate it.” she says. He nods,

“I am glad. They are consulting with the doctors, but it seems that he would have to be taken out of his cryogenic state for them to attach it. I trust in you to determine when that is.” he says, and she nods. Glancing back at the arm, she reaches her hand out to him. He takes it, and meets her eyes. Shaking her hand firmly, she smiles,

“Thank you, T’Challa. You have done everything and more for us. For him.” she said. Nodding, his pressing his other hand on top of hers. His hands are rough, but warm with friendship and comfort. 

“‘Saving one man could start to save the world.’ And I am glad I did.” he says. She smiles, and grips his hand tightly before letting go.

“I know you have other duties to attend to. I appreciate you coming personally, and I thank you again. I don’t think I’ll ever really stop thanking you.” she laughs. He smiles, their hands dropping. Nodding, he takes a step away,

“It was my pleasure, Ms. Stewart.” he says, and walked to the doors. He pauses as they slide open, and glances back at her. He feels himself wishing to tell her of the events that have passed while they have been safely inside the facility. Of the dangers that were to come, of how the world will come to it’s end.

Seeing her look down at the arm in such hope and thankfulness, he bypasses the negativity. Let there be one innocent thing in this world, free of its burdens, and let it be her. Let it be.

He turns without saying another word, and with each step he feels regret. He suppresses it, and enters the elevator with his assistant. His phone rings, and he doesn’t hesitate to answer.

“Captain Rogers.”

 

Sarah marvels at the gift a little longer. She knows the impact this could have on Bucky, but knows she needs to wait. He needs to heal, and he needs time. If that time is away from her, then she will endure it. 

Folding the sheet and setting it over the box, she notices one more thing before she leaves.

 

There was no mark of a red star, and that makes her smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Sorry i've been terribly inactive lately, school and work and life in general has been kicking my ass... But here is a well-anticipated update, though not really an appearance with Bucky, sorry to say! Next one will make up for it, I promise!
> 
> But I was inspired by some of the Infinity War concept art of Bucky, and saw he does indeed have a new arm, most likely supplied by T'Challa, so I gave my own spin to it! Plus, I wanted to kind of fill in what Sarah does all this time she has to herself. I see it as terribly lonely, but as an oppurtunity for her to expand her horizons and watch over Bucky in a way. What are your thoughts? I hope you enjoy!
> 
> -K


	8. A Visitor

Sam Wilson’s tip had come from a homeless woman who said she had seen the man from his picture, walking with a woman several times over the course of a few months. Sam, being cynical this deep into his search, brushed her off at first and told her to come back when she had more. A week later, she comes to him with a name and workplace for the woman, and says that it was for sure the man in the photo. 

 

Between missions, Sam had nothing better to do, so he checks out the lead.

 

He finds the woman working at the General Hospital, and she seems nice, and normal. When she’s through at the hospital, she walks home alone. Pretty gutsy, but he saw her hand clutching something inside her purse and his worry was gone. 

He hadn’t seen Barnes any time she has come and gone, and he’s peered into her windows to find no one else in her apartment. No boyfriend, no pet. A very simple lifestyle. 

 

One day, he decides he knows enough to approach her home and ask her questions. Maybe she had a boyfriend who heavily resembled Barnes, or a brother. While the latter seemed unlikely, he wanted to expend all his options.

He finds himself in front of her door, and he realizes how loose this lead was. Going on the word of a (probably) mentally ill homeless woman, and the assumption that she had been in contact with Barnes was iffy for him. He remembers Steve in the back of his mind, and his desperation in trying to find him before anyone else did. That helps him raise his fist to the door as he knocks three times.

He waits in silence, and hears the light steps of feet, and several locks being undone. He thinks that’s a little much for a woman living in an apartment in a decent neighborhood, and notes it for later. 

The door opens just slightly, and he spies an eye creep out from behind the door.

“Yes?”

“Sarah Stewart?”

“I don’t want any Bibles, thanks.” she says, her face moving from the door. Her voice is even, but he can sense urgency behind them.

“I’m not here about- I just need to ask you some questions.” he replies. She opens the door a little more, and assesses him closer.

“Sam Wilson?”

“You know me.” he observes. She scoffs,

“I watch the news. What does SHIELD want?” she questions. She doesn’t seem worried, and opens the door further, but does not yet invite him in.

“I’m not here on behalf of SHIELD. I have my own mission I need to accomplish.” he says. She glances down, then opens the door, standing to the side and gestures him in. He nods slightly and steps inside, shrugging off his jacket. He drops his jacket on the stand, and notices another jacket beside hers.

“Boyfriend?” he questions. 

“Ex.” she throws over her shoulder as she walks to the kitchen. He glances around, and can find no other indication that she had another inhabitant. Walking to the kitchen, she has a bowl of fruit out, and takes down two glasses.

“Want anything to drink?” she questions. He nods,

“If you’re offering.” he says, glancing at the table and she gestures him to sit. She pours two glasses of wine, and walks over to the table, setting one down in front of him.

“I hope you like merlot.” she said, sitting across from him.

“Now, why did a SHIELD agent take time out of his busy schedule to come see me? And technically, aren’t you an Avenger?” she questions, taking a sip of wine. He mirrors her action, leaning back in his seat.

“I’m set with the task of looking for someone. For a friend.” he says, taking out his phone. Sarah looks at him patiently, and he opens up a photo in his phone, sliding it to her. It was a grainy, old picture of Barnes, but still distinguishable.

“Have you seen this guy? Has he come into the hospital, seen him on the street?” he watches her face intently as she assesses the photo, and he sees something like sorrow flash across her face. 

“Um… maybe. We get a lot of homeless people come in and out. He might have, I can’t remember.” she says, looking back at him. He can tell she is lying, but the look she is giving him tells him not to tell her this.

“Does the name James Buchanan Barnes ring a bell?”

“Only from American History class. That guy helped Captain America in the war, right?” she questions. He knows she’s combating questions with questions, the stubbornness ringing true. He takes a sip of wine.

“Yeah.”   
“Why are you trying to find a dead man?”

“He’s not dead. And I think you know that.” he says, meeting her eyes. He expects her to become hard, cut off. But, she shrugs, and sighs.

“A lot of people aren’t what they seem these days.” 

“That’s a very cryptic response.” 

“Listen, you’re the guy that came to my door, okay? I don’t know where this guy is. I just-”

“So you know him.” 

“What?”

“You know him, but you don’t know where he is.” She pauses and looks at him, then takes a long gulp of her wine.

“I don’t 

He might have come in to the hospital, but I don’t remember. I see hundreds of people a day. The faces blur together. And I’m sure I’ve seen someone like him, I mean, there are a ton of guys who look like that on the streets. If I did know where this guy is, I have a feeling that I shouldn’t tell you.” she says, and stands up. She walks to the refrigerator and grabs the bottle of wine, refilling it. Sam stands, sensing there is something definitely up with this nurse other than stubbornness and borderline alcoholism. 

“Right,” he says, walking to the counter and sets the glass down that was still half full. “I’m sorry that I bothered you, ma’am.” he said, glancing around. 

“But… If you have any intel, or you see anything…” he says, taking a small pad and pen he saw on the counter and jot down his number.

“Call 

number. It’s my cell. I’m here to help, not harm, okay?” he said. She glances at the paper, picking it up, and then looks to him. He sees something in her relax slightly, though he wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol or his words.

“Okay. I’m sorry I couldn’t help.” she says. He nods, and she sighs. She extends the bowl of fruit to him,   
“Plums?”   
“No, thanks,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see myself out.” He walks to the doorway, and Sarah follows him. He takes his jacket, shrugging it on. Sarah looks to him, her eyes clouded with worry.

“If… If you find him, make sure he’s safe. Alright?” The fragility of her voice gives her away, and she ducks to grab the door, opening it for him. He hesitates, then nods,

“I’ll see what I can do.” he said with a light smile and headed out the door. 

Sarah shuts it quietly, and does up all the locks. She double checks them before walking to the kitchen, picking up the stack of mail she had collected before Sam’s arrival. She immediately grabs the light blue envelope addressed from the small port of Kilronan, Ireland.

She smiles, and holds it close as she walks to her room. Grabbing the box that held the other letters, she sets it on her nightstand as she sits on the edge of her bed. Undoing the top carefully, she slides the folded papers out, opening them up to page one.

 

_"Dear Sarah,"_


	9. Unwelcomed

Bucky pushed his hair to the side. He stared at himself in the mirror, at the mop of hair that was a mess on his hair. He wanted to change it, somehow. While Sarah never protested to it, and often was the one to meticulously cut it (since he refused to go to a barber) and brush it (he had a very tender head, they learned), he wanted to try and shake it up. Though, when he pushed it too the side, it was too… Fabio (he googled the reference after Sarah pointed it out to him). Pushing it back made him look too Loki (the hair product he found sealed the look, though).

After washing his hair for the second time (though he still had sticky product in his hair), he brushed it carefully and let it sit sopping wet instead to air dry.

As he heard the door open and shut, he heard Sarah shuffling around. Opening the bathroom door, he did notice her movements were a little more erratic than usual. With a few strides, he was at the hallway, seeing her taking off her jacket and shoes hurriedly.

“Sarah?” he questions, taking her hand when he reached her side. When she looked to him, her face was pale, and eyes wide with fright. He felt his body become rigid, sirens going off in his mind.

“I just… I saw a car. It’s probably nothing.” she says. He turned and went to the window, pushing back the curtain just slightly, looking down the street at any car that might not have belonged.

“Bucky, it’s fine. It’s not- It’s not HYDRA, or anything. It’s…” He turns slightly hearing her trail off. She takes a shaky breath.

“It might… _Might_ be my ex-boyfriend’s car.”

This makes him pause. She has never really spoken of any past relationships. Maybe people from high school, but that’s about it.

“Ex boyfriend?” he clarifies. She nods,

“He- We dated, for like, a month. It wasn’t really that big of a deal, but… I’ve had, er, issues with him before.” He frowns, glancing outside again. A few cars looked unfamiliar, but it could be any of those.

“He just… He’s shown up randomly at my house once or twice. But, I talked to him about it and I haven’t seen him since, but… I mean, I may have seen his car on my street. Maybe, I don’t know.” she says, crossing the room to his side. He pushed open the curtain for her a little more for her to see, and he hears her breath catch just the slightest.

“I just… It’s probably just a grey sedan, nothing to be worried about.” Bucky spied the one she spoke of, and felt he had seen it at least once before. But, like she said, it could be anything.

Bucky takes her arm lightly, turning her to him. She sighs, softening under his touch, and leans into his side. He kisses her hair lightly,

“Well, I’m here now.” he says. She looks up at him and smiles lightly.

“You are.” she says, raising a hand to touch his cheek. She sniffs, and her eyebrows furrow.  
“Did you use some of my styling product?”

As Bucky opened his mouth to relay the story, there was a knock on the door that caused them both to jump. Bucky moves but Sarah grabs him.

“Wait. If it’s him, I can handle this.”

“But you seem afraid of him.” he says lowly. She shakes her head,

“He won’t hurt me.”

Bucky could see the doubtful look on her face, but knew she needed to deal with this on her own.

“I will be close by.” he murmurs, and she nods slightly. She walks to the door, and Bucky ducks into the kitchen. There, he would be only a step away from the hall if she needed any assistance. Leaning against the wall, he heard the door open.

“Micheal.” he hears Sarah say. Her voice is steady, and that makes him proud.

“Hey, um- I guess I should have called.” a voice, with a more tenor note, says. One that hasn’t quite reached maturity, though he could tell he was the same age as Sarah.

“You should have.” she says sternly.

“I-I wanted to talk.” Micheal says. “I feel bad about what I did, how I am. I wanted to change that.”

“By doing exactly what you did before.”

“No, I’m- I know I should have let you know-”  
“Like you said you would, and you didn’t. You know I can go to the police now, right?”   
“Sarah, Sarah, please-” he hears him beg, and a shuffle implies that he had crossed the threshold, Sarah taking a step or two back.

“Micheal, stay back. I haven’t invited you in.” Sarah says, her voice thick with warning. He hears another shuffle and feels the air settle just slightly.

“Right, right, sorry, um… Can I? I mean, i’ve been thinking about us. I really like you, Sarah-”  
“Micheal, we broke up _three years ago._ And we dated for a month. It’s over, okay? This,” there’s a pause, “is done. It’s not going to happen.”

There’s another pause, and Bucky feels tension in the air. He doesn’t see Sarah’s shadow shift once.

“You need to leave. And stay away from my apartment, from my complex. Do you understand?”

“Sarah, I can make it up to you. I _will_ make it up to you-”   
“I said, do you understand.” Her voice is hollow, and quiet. But, it sends shivers down his spine. His hand touches the wall just slightly, his ears vying for any word he could catch.

Finally,

“I understand.” Micheal whispers.

“Good. I never want to see you here again.”

“Sarah-”  
That’s when Bucky steps out, seeing Sarah at the door and keeping a man a little taller than her from entering. His brown eyes move from her to him, in shock.

“Um, I-”  
“I think you’re done here.” Bucky says, crossing his arms. Sarah doesn’t turn to him, but keeps her eyes baring into Micheal. Micheal looks to Sarah, his lips parting, then he gulps. He blinks rapidly, and turns away, heading down the hall. Sarah shuts the door quietly, and does up the locks one by one. Her hand rests on the doorknob, and she turns, exhaling sharply. Bucky takes a step to her, taking her by her arms gently.

“Are you alright?”

She looks up to him, and smiles lightly.

“Yeah. I… I think I am.” she says. Bucky nods,

“Well, I think you handled it alright. You had _me_ scared for a second.” he says with a light smile. She laughs,

“Oh, you should have seen him. He looked like he was going to cream his pants or burst into tears.” she says, sighing. “Serves him right, though.”

Her eyes move up Bucky’s face, and she smiles lightly. Reaching up to touch his hair, her eyebrows furrow again.  
“What did you do to your hair?”

He laughs nervously, seeing her face contort into disgust as it gets caught in the greasiness. Explaining to her his ordeal, she makes him show her what he used. Her eyebrows shoot up to her hairline, and she looks from the bottle to him.  
“Bucky, baby… You can’t use this. This is not for hair like yours.” she says, and he shrugs.

“I didn’t think it would make a difference.” She shakes her head, rolling her eyes.

“Listen, if you want luscious locks like an Asgardian God, I can get you your own hair stuff. But… don’t use mine, okay?” she laughs lightly. He nods, and she turns to the tub, running the water. Bending down to the sink, she takes out another bottle.

“Now, let’s clean that head of yours.” she says with a smug grin. Bucky groans, but drops to his knees beside the tub, bracing his elbows on the edge.

“I knew I should have stuck with the hairspray.” he mumbles. Sarah sits on the edge of the tub and pushes up her sleeves, opening the bottle and pouring some of the contents on her hands.  
“Shut it and stick your head in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does art imitate life? In this instance it does.  
> I've had a very similar experience like this happen to me on more than one occasion with an ex, and some recent events have brought these memories back. So, after spending a day freaking out over it, I decided "fuck it" and wrote it out. Though I don't have Bucky to protect me and be there for me (I wish I did!), I just wanted to write where if something like this happened again, this is how it would sort of go. I'm just really done with my ex and his creepy ass hanging around my neighborhood. (By the way, all the details were changed like name, looks, etc. But, the story is very true)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! More to come soon :)
> 
> -K


	10. All In a Night's Work

Sarah shuts the hospital locker, pulling her bag onto her shoulder. Her shoulders were heavy, but at least this was no 12 hour shift.

The panic and energy had certainly gone down over the past two weeks. The hospital had slowed to it’s normal pace, which meant sporadic events like people coming in with gunshot or stab wounds. But, just today she had someone come in with a frozen sausage shoved up their  _ you know what.  _ Another patient followed up with stomach pains (turns out they swallowed a toothpick. Not pretty).

All in a day’s work. Now all she could focus on was just getting home.

Her hair thrown up in a loose ponytail, the weight was enough to give her a headache. But, she didn’t have the strength to fix it or take it down. She heads out the side door and into the cool D.C. air.

He stands across the street, seeing her step out and head towards home. He doesn’t do this often, since her schedule doesn’t tend to be constant. Tonight, however, he catches her walking out. And like a few times before, he wonders if he should go to her. 

Bucky had been living on his own these past two weeks, trying to find a way out of D.C., but failing. He felt like he would be recognized anywhere he went, and it was suspicious-looking that he wore a long sleeved shirt and gloves in September in Washington. He was trying to find his feet, stable ground. But, he was failing significantly.

However, the memories kept coming back to him. When he learned of the Captain America exhibit, he visited it quite often (though under the guise of a hat and upturned collar of his jacket). He would stare into the face of the stoic Captain. His friend. His brother in arms. His mission.

They came back in peices, just little glimpses. He couldn’t even find a significant time frame for most of them. Some of them ranged from him being young and spritey in Brooklyn, to shooting at people through a window from across a street in Rome.

But he had no way of documenting them, of remembering them after they have passed. He needed stability, but he doubted he would find it on the streets of D.C.

He had thought about going back to Sarah’s many times. Each time, he turns away. He knows what she must think of him; what a horrible man, to force his way into her own home and demand her attention. He wasn’t as kind to her as he wished he would have been. In fact, the only nice thing he must have done for her was get her mail that morning. That was miniscule to the other things he had done. Watched her, kept her from the outside world, among others. 

But somehow, she never felt like his prisoner. She always looked back at him with that pointed, defiant look. Like she was silently asking him  _ “go ahead, you move.”  _

He admired that within her.

Just as he is about to leave his place in the shadows, he sees her turn sooner than normal. His eyebrows furrow, puzzled at her change in direction. Almost subconsciously, he begins to follow.

Sarah took a detour, hoping this would get her home a little faster. It was dark, and she tried to go down the streets that were well-lit. She knew the lights down Elmor were under maintenance, leaving the street in complete darkness. So, she took a turn towards a more well-lit street on her way home.

She gripped her pepper spray in her pocket, one hand firmly on her purses’ strap. She was no stranger to the creepy streets of D.C. at night, but had developed a sense of indifference to it. However, she always played it safe. Just in case.

She does not notice that she has not one, but two followers. She aching in her bones is enough to keep her distracted, making her pace quicken to get home. All she wants to do is shower and put on her comfy socks, and catch an episode of her favorite sitcom. 

The unnamed man tails her for a few minutes, before picking up speed. Bucky, across the street, only notices him when he jumps out of the shadows and drags Sarah into an alleyway.

She barely has time to cry out when a hand is clamped over her mouth, and she whips out her pepper spray as she is dragged into the black alleyway. However, the cold metal of a knife against her throat is enough to get her to stop. Raising her hands, she drops the pepper spray. It rolls somewhere to the left, clinking with a discarded beer bottle.

“Give me your purse. Don’t even think of fucking screaming.” a voice hisses in her ear. She squeezes her eyes shut, mumbling a reply of recognition. The metal of the knife is lifted, and she begins to slide down the strap of her purse when she feels someone grab her from the front this time. She is thrown into the light of the sidewalk, falling onto her knees. Her purse’s contents falls beside her, and she struggles to pick it up, glancing back as she hears the sound of a struggle. Grunts of effort are heard, as of fists connecting with bone. A distinct slash of metal cutting fabric and flesh is heard, but one hard slam quells the sound of the fighting. 

She looks down, her pepper spray rolling aimlessly out of the alley from the struggle. She grabs it, looking up when she sees a figure began to emerge from the alleyway. Standing, she holds the pepper spray out, her bag against her chest.

“Step any closer, and I burn your face off, asshole.” she hisses. Bucky is amused that she moves her feet into something that resembles a fighting stance, but her hand shakes as she holds up the pepper spray.

Bucky raises a hand, and she glances to the side for a split second but he takes a step out of the alleyway, and she pressed down. 

Super soldier or not, pepper spray still hurts like  _ a motherfucker.  _ Bucky’s hands reach up to his face, and he stumbles forward. Sarah’s eyes widen and she stumbles back, 

“ _ Shit.”  _ Bucky hisses, feeling his eyes burn like he had seen the fires of hell itself. 

_ “Bucky?”  _ Sarah asks incredulously. On his knees, Bucky continues to wipe at his eyes. Sarah lets the pepper spray drop with a light  _ clink,  _ and she bends down to Bucky’s side. Putting a hand on his human arm, she holds him tight.

“I didn’t kn-”   
“It’s okay. Are you-”   
“Jesus, yes, I’m fine. What about you?” she says, her eyebrows furrowed, creating a thin line down her forehead. 

“I think I’ll live, why in the  _ fuck  _ did you-” he curses, and she pulls her hand away, but something shiny catches in the light. Looking down at her hand, it comes red with blood. 

“Shit, you’re bleeding.” she says, putting her hand back over his bicep, pressing down. Bucky didn’t even feel it, not with the burning sensation currently seeping into his eyes.

“I-”

“Come on. Stand up.” she says. With her other hand supporting him, she brings him to his feet. The proximity brings her close, and she has to ignore the smell that permeates off of him. She holds his arm tight to stop any more bleeding, and wills her feet to begin to carry them home.

 

.-.-.

 

Bucky finds himself in the same chair he had sat in the first time he was in her apartment. He can see a little bit by now, but his eyes were still wet with tears and searing with pain.

He hears a ripping sound, and the coolness of Sarah’s air conditioning befall his arm. He doesn’t even notice her leave and come back with a plastic box, undoing the latches and pulling out gauze.

Sarah had cut away the fabric of his shirt to open up the wound to her. A quick assessment says it wasn’t deep enough to the bone, but would need stitches. Going to the bathroom, she had found her first aid kit and cleaned up his wound with peroxide. 

“How many times are we going to do this?” she mumbles as she rolls his arm in gauze for now.

“Me fixing you up in the dead of night. This better not become a habit.” she says. Bucky breathes out from his nose, sounding something like a laugh. Sarah crosses the kitchen, washing her hands and gets a cloth. She wracks her brain for ways to treat pepper spray, remembering some men would come in with pepper spray in their eyes. But, she didn’t have the hospital’s fancy medicine or treatments, but she did have an apartment full of items she could use.

Running the cloth under water, she lets it soak before adding vegetable oil to it. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen.” he mumbles, the pain becoming somewhat bearable now. He doesn’t add that because of her change of course she ran into the robber, that because he was following her that he was there to see and stop it. 

She turns, walking over and pulls up a chair beside him.

“Well,” she says, raising the cloth to his face. He turns it away, before reaching up and feeling for it with his metallic hand. When he finds it, he feels her hand under his own. Using his hand as a guide, she is able to apply it where it hurts the most.

“If you weren’t there, my blood could have been decorating the sidewalk. That, or my 15 dollar bag would have been taken along with my credit card.” she explains. He doesn’t understand how she can sound so… casual about it. However, if he could see, he wouldn’t doubt her face showed her true fear.

She finally feels her heartbeat begin to level out, the adrenaline slowly seeping out of her veins. As she applied the cloth to his face, she feels herself begin to relax little by little. Even if she talked about it offhandedly, she knew that she could have very well died tonight, or been seriously hurt. She had no intention of becoming the next Kitty Genovese, but for a brief moment, it was a possibility.

She instructed him to hold the cloth and apply it where it hurt, turning her attention to the first aid kit and pulls out some line and a needle. She didn’t have any way to numb him like she could if they were in the hospital. Glancing at the cabinet, she gets up and retrieves a bottle of whiskey she reserved for special occasions. While this was not special, it certainly was a bizarre enough reason for it’s services.

When she instructs him to take the bottle, a frown comes to his lips.

“Why?” 

“I have to give you stitches, and I need you to take something for the pain. I don’t have any other way to numb you.” she explains. He weighs it in his hands, but knows this would not quell any pain from him. Looks like he would just have to bear it for what it was.

When he extends it back to her, she looks to him incredulously before taking it back. He hears the cap unscrew and a gulp. Sarah sets the bottle back on the table, making a face but moved to Bucky’s side.

“What was that for?” he questioned, moving the cloth over his eyes a little. The pain was disappearing quicker than he thought. He supposed he had the super-soldier serum to thank for that.

“Concentration.” she says, and threads the needle and gets to work.

He doesn’t cry out or jerk away. But, he does find his hand clenching into a tight fist many times. Sarah works as quickly as she can, trying her best to not hurt him anymore. After delivering three stitches and tying them, she covers them with Neosporin and more gauze. She sits back in her chair, the sound of the legs skidding back slightly signaling to Bucky she was done. She sighs heavily, setting the needle on the table.

“You’re a piece of work.” she mumbles. Reaching over and taking the bottle, she takes another gulp. Her face contorting once more, and screws it back and sets it back on it’s shelf. 

Bucky lowers the cloth, opening his eyes and blinks a few times. He can see somewhat clearly, and he looks up to Sarah. She turns, stopping in her tracks as she takes him in for the first time.

His eyes are bloodshot from the pepper spray, ringed with red. His scruff she had seen before was now a full-grown beard. His clothes looked old, worn, and smelled. His hair was greasy and rumpled, and he looked underfed. He looked like hell, so she tells him so.

“So do you.” he replies without missing a beat. He feels something like teasing come from the comment, and she nods, glancing down at her scrubs that were dirtied and bloodstained. Her hair was all but coming undone from the top of her head, and Bucky could see dark circles under her eyes like crescent moons. He thought, of all things in this very moment, that she was lovely. He could not put any other thought as to why, but he doesn’t question it.

Putting her hands on her hips, she sighs.

“So, is this another one-night stay, or am I expecting you for longer this time?” she questions. She sounds exasperated, but the look in her eyes tells him that she’s not opposed to it this time. His lips part to reply, but he quickly closes his mouth. Her eyebrows raise, and her head cocks to the side, and he sees that look again.

_ Go ahead, you move. _

“Yeah,” he mumbles, “If you’ll have me.” 

Silence settles long enough for him to look up at her, and she begins nodding.

“Alright. I’ll have to go to the store tomorrow, but… Yeah. I can… I can manage.” she says, nodding to herself. Reaching up and pulling the hair tie out of her hair, her curls spring free. Rubbing her face, she sighs.

“I’ll make up the couch. There’s some leftovers in the fridge from Thai Tuesday that you can have. I’ll try to-”

“Sarah.” he says, and she stops, looking across to him.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry.” he says. He sees a tired smile play on her lips, and sighs.

“Right. Like you said last time.” She says something about going to take a shower, getting some clothes for him and getting a blanket or two. She says this on her way out of the kitchen, and he calls to her. Turning to look at him under the LED lights of her kitchen, Bucky finds the environment suddenly comforting. 

“Yeah?” she replies. 

“I would have knocked this time.” he says. She nods, and he sees a smile ghost over her lips. 

And then she disappears, and he knows that it’s a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone has had a lovely holiday (if you celebrate Thanksgiving), and thank you for keeping up with this story. I hate that i don't update like this all the time, but life is crazy like that. Please feel free to comment or bookmark! It'll keep ya up with any surprise updates! x)
> 
> -K


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